Mark explained that at any given moment he may have to leave the state, the country or the
universe. He further stated that his friends had been staying at his house and that many
things were "coming down fast," maybe too fast for him. By the articles, such as
clothing strewn about the house, it was clear that other beings had marked their
territory. Mark was, without question, deeply entangled in something stranger than I could
ever have imagined.
That night, in so many words, spoken and unspoken, Mark led me to
understand that either his bedroom was a bonafied crime scene or some bizarre ritual had
taken place there the night before. Either way, Mark would soon be outta there, and maybe
gone forever.
A couple of nights later, Mark called again. This time he needed the
use of my pickup truck to move his refrigerator from his Venice pad to "some friends
place." Besides Mark being the lead in my movie, he was also my good friend and
because he was apparently moving out for his own well being, I could not refuse. So late
that night, Mark and I loaded the refrigerator onto the truck and headed back to the San
Fernando Valley. Our destination was to "the Chandler House" in North Hollywood.
The old wood sided house was set back from the street on a large wooded
property. It was so dark that I didn't think anyone was even home. Passing through the
chain link gates and proceeding down a long driveway to the back of the house, we found
the back kitchen door, upon which to enter. Obviously, Mark had been here before and his
friends were expecting him.
With only candle light, I was only able to realize the presence of
others by the sounds of sporadic soft spoken words. I'm sure the thought crossed my mind,
are these the "friends" who were staying at Mark's place? After we unloaded the
fridge, I mysteriously found myself casually sitting in a circle on the living room floor
with various "Hippie" types.
I remember hearing a small baby cry, but there was no traditional
evidence, such as a baby buggy, to suggest the presence of little ones. A young girl,
maybe twenty years old, must of sensed my curiosity and combined with her motherly
instincts, lifted herself from the circle and lightly pranced over to a wooden orange
crate, (the kind with the colorful paper label on the end). How ingenious I thought, after
all, the crate was equipped with a small blanket, and notwithstanding the possibility of
splinters, served it's purpose well.
With seven of us, late at night, making small talk under shadowy light,
it came as no surprise to me, that soon a marijuana cigarette appeared. I watched somewhat
nervously as the small reddish orange glow floated from fingers to lips to fingers until
it reached me. Without any thought, I simply grasped the joint between my fingers, and
without indulging, I passed it along.
"Hey man, how can we trust you if you don't smoke with us?"
came the challenge from a young man to my right. "I don't give a fuck if you trust me
or not" I blurted out. Only later did I learn that the man's name was Bruce Davis and
he would be indicted for murder. The secluded house on Chandler Boulevard was the latest
hideout for the soon to be famous "Manson Gang." Now everything would be coming
down real fast.
